Author: mrsProbie PM
In the war, Viktor Krum was hit by a stray hex that makes brooms go haywire when he comes near. Years of practice and hard work have all come to nothing; he can no longer play his favorite game.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Angst - Viktor K. - Words: 428 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 1 - Published: 06-20-10 - Status: Complete - id: 6070162
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
People ask me the same questions. Constantly. "Does it bother you that you can no longer play Quidditch?" Well, no. After being promised a spot on one of the world's top teams, I took the news that thanks to my illness I would never be able to play again quite well.
Yes. It bothers me a lot. Sometimes I- yes, I admit it- break down and cry. It doesn't matter if I'm eating, playing cards, or drifting off to sleep. My mind will wander and the loneliness I suffer so often bites at my skin, tearing at me. I can't even just play alone: Quidditch is not a solo sport. If there's one person with a ball, nothing's happening.
Whenever I'm out shopping and I see kids looking for their first brooms, it brings tears to my eyes. Will they be ruined the same way I have been? Will they have opportunities I don't get because of this- this deformity? This disability?
I can barely watch a game. I tear up, my eyes get wet. Not to mention that the damn hex makes the brooms of the players near me go wild. That would be why I can't play. It's incurable, sort of like Muggles that have almost enough magic to be a Muggle-born, but not quite enough, so they just can't stand too close to facks machines or they won't work right or whatever. But instead, this is with Quidditch.
Nobody realizes just how much it really tears me up inside. They can see, of course, that it upsets me when I'm confronted with things directly related to the game- stats, teams, players, brooms, etc.- but they don't realize how anything can become related to Quidditch in my mind.
My daughter could be telling me all about Muggle chemistry. She says the word 'beaker.' Sounds a bit like 'Seeker.' And there I am, dazed and staring into space, hoping against hope that I don't start crying in front of her. What am I supposed to do? Daddy is supposed to be tough.
Daddy is supposed to be tough.
A/N: This fic really hits home in a way I can't explain. I have no disability (nor do I have a daughter), but there are a tremendous amount of things that have been keeping me from doing what I love for the past four years. I've been eating noodles all day, so I knew I needed to write something sad.